


fetish

by wtfmulder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Abduction Arc, Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-20 00:07:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12420999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfmulder/pseuds/wtfmulder
Summary: Mulder misses Scully.





	fetish

There was a house. Filled with things, and only some light. The light went out when she did. **  
**

Her things followed.

***

He’s never been to her apartment cleansed of blood. With the crime scene tape all torn away, the the furniture rearranged, and the glass swept up off the floor, he can almost see it. 

Her coming in through the door. Hanging her keys in the holder, her coat in the closet. He sits on the couch, hands at his sides. Unmoving. She faces him.

Nods. 

Goes about her business. 

Finishes her day. 

He blinks, slow, and it all goes away. 

He sits on the couch.

***

_Dolls, of course, but also –_

_Sketch books. He can’t remember what she drew. She couldn’t have been very good. Then there were the –_

_Clothes. Butterflies. Overalls. She loved_ purple _but their mother loved_ pink, _and so –_

_But it stops there. Sometimes. Sometimes he remembers the sketchbooks and then nothing else._

***

He comes to think of her as _here_ , because that means she’s around for him to find. It’s the intangible here. It means anywhere. He thinks of what that means. It means that he will look, anywhere. He does, everywhere but his dreams. He doesn’t sleep. But otherwise 

– here she is, around his neck. His fingers close around the chain. He brings it to his lips. No necklace has ever been so heavy, no jewlery has ever been so precious, and then 

– here she is, up in space, if you see her say hello, this is where he’ll never find her, and then 

– here she is.

Anywhere.

***

_Fox. Please put that back._

_But mom, you’re just throwing it all out! You’re throwing it out! It’s like you don’t –_

_Listen to your mother. Your sister is –_

_You’re throwing her away! How could you just_ throw her away?

 _Your sister is_ gone _, Fox. Now put that back._

***

  
But in case he forgets, he has this. In her apartment remains the unshakable truth that Dana Scully exists. 

He knows that she keeps on the lights, but he keeps them off. And he knows that the coffee table is out of position, and that there’s no yogurt in the fridge and that the mail is being forwarded to her mother. He doesn’t feel her presence in the air; it does not feel like she could walk in any moment, find him waiting. He doesn’t see her in the corner of his eye, clicking down hallways, cutting into the dead. He is not so lucky to catch glimpses of her, to have that kind of hope. 

He doesn’t know how to explain it. He knows there are different schools of thought behind why an object might possess a certain energy. Psychoscopy, how a thing will tell you other things. Talisman. Fetish. Four leaf clovers, a bag of bones, the cross around his neck. Be it history or magic or the law of conservation of energy, _things_ were alive, things _kept her alive_. Melanesians and their bamboo sticks. The head of Brân.

So.

When he can’t sleep.

He meets up with her.

He reads her books, and does not like a great many of them. He roams the rooms, a pest in the dark, he goes through her glassware and her videotapes and her CDs. In some ways he gets to know her better than he ever did when she was face to face with him. Scully likes romance, she likes rhythm and blues, some of her mugs have puppies on them. 

Journals. He only reads the ones that could qualify as a medical textbooks. He sees _I hate her I hate her I hate her_ scribbled onto the page of one and slams it back into the drawer, pretends he hadn’t seen it. But there are the broken up thoughts. Who. Who. She hates her mom. Her sister? Her professor.

He’s a restless, cawing crow in what should have been her safe space, digging up her treasure and pocketing all the goods. Some things he takes home. 

***

_“Eidetiker” is what Professor Doherty called him. You have a damn good memory, Fox. It’s like a child’s. Eidetic memory is far more present in children than it is in adults. It’s like it never left you._

_He can hold an image in his head and keep it there. Sometimes he can taste it. Nothing ever gets distorted._

_Except it never fucking works when he needs it._

***

It doesn’t even occur to him until he sees it. 

He’s not a pervert.

Not really.

***

_We played games we played boardgames she liked dolls she liked drawing she killed that spider for me when I couldn’t move these are all the things I remember there are more there are more she liked dolls she liked drawing she what happened to her what happened to her where did she go –_

***

His tape plays. Moaning. She listens to classical when she works – he’d argue he does the same.

Her file is spread out on the table. Her picture blown up.

Gray. Gagged. Eyes wide, scared. 

If he fucked her, that first night. When she was scared. And shaking. In his arms. 

If he decided, I have been hurt and no one believes me. She does not believe me.

If he fucked her then. 

That’s what he thinks about, his face mashed against her silky blue underwear. She had not been wearing silk that night, no siree, so sometimes he changes the image in his head so that she is wearing silk, or sometimes he pretends he is holding cotton. It doesn’t. Doesn’t matter. He holds the cross between his lips, grinds his mouth into fabric, moans. Dampens it with his spit. 

Rubs his cock through his pants. He is so hard it hurts. He is so hard it makes him cry. 

He hadn’t been turned on at the time. He had been worried. But if he had been turned on… he would have kissed her, on his knees. Over the waistband of her panties, and all the way up her back. He likes – he likes her back. The way she holds herself. Her arms crossed. 

Oh, she hated him. But something… there was something…  
  
His mouth on her neck. Licking his fingers, putting out the candle, pulling her with him to the floor. She would have gone for it, the way she looked at him. He had noticed and it made him want to roll his eyes. He would’ve fucked her. It would have been easy.  No one believes me. She does not believe me.

She would have left. 

***

There was an apartment. Filled with things. He turned off the light.


End file.
